Soul Devourer
by hidekey
Summary: Ethan Croth was fated to be nothing but a peasant. However, with Youkai interference, he became much more.


AN: I am converting my novel-length story from what was once an online shared world, Mernac, to something more entertaining and applicable to those who don't know anything about Mernac. I started with some borrowed characters, and some randomly invented names. I want to make names that describe their roles in the book, rather than just random things. In Japanese, preferably. Names may change if I find better ones. I'll announce it in author's notes if it does. I also want to change the races to more traditional Youkai. I have anime-knowledge of Japanese folklore, so corrections or suggestions are appreciated. Also, the gender of many characters in this story have changed since I started it (I am of the opinion that one's sex doesn't change one's personality; so if there is a fanbase for yaoi or het or even a combination, I'm open minded. Also, I'm currently leaving their harvest as flax, because I'm a prairie girl and know nothing about rice farming. But considering this is going to have a Japanese theme, edits from someone familiar with rice farming would be greatly appreciated.

Notes about the Mernac world that I'd like to parallel in this story. Siberlee and Barak were a couple who decided to create their own world, then went about recruiting other Gods (20 in all) to have dominion over some aspect of the world. Then they had an argument, and hated each other, causing two opposing camps among the Gods, the Mothers who followed Siberlee and the Fathers who followed Barak. I will need new names for the Gods, as these are someone else's names, and I was thinking the two camps of Gods could be the Kami and the Oni?

Prologue

On the 30th day of September, 804, a striking phenomenon occurred unnoticed beyond the veil of the human world. It had never happened before, and may never happen again: A human boy, destined to live the short life of harsh servitude, struck out at injustice and defied his fate.

Ripples of his actions spread across the kingdom. Legendary Heroes that should have been, were outshined and forgotten...

"I know they mean well," Ethan Croth kicked down the sheaf of flax he'd just harvested, "but I am a man now! I shouldn't need their permission to care for the family!" He continued to rant about his parents' loyalty to Overlord Vaarsak. It cost the family more and more money each year, but his parents refused to be dishonest about their taxes.  
"And I shouldn't be punished because of it!" He grit his teeth, straightening the bundle he'd disrupted. "Oh well," he sighed. "If I can't hide money for later, I'll at least squeeze every bit of profit from this healthy crop"! Ethan spared a glance at his threadbare boots; the heels were completely worn away and one of the toes had burst. "A good thing, too. I won't last another winter like this." The reminder of last year's long illness and brush with death made him shudder, even in the smothering heat of the autumn sun. He shrugged off the memory and redoubled his effort in harvesting the bounty.

"Ethan," the distant voice of his mother interrupted his concentration, and broke his rhythm of tying sheaves. He looked up to see Ethelain Nightcliff-Croth standing in a sea of flax stalks, waiting for him in the wild waves. The boy began gathering his tools to head for supper.  
"Leave it all," his mother commanded, "there's a storm coming." Ethan bit his lip, the flax he'd harvested today was nearly enough for his coveted pair of new shoes. He was loath to surrender it to the storm's wind. He glanced at his mother, seeing if she knew what he was thinking. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized she was already heading back to their house.

As a youkai, Ethelain could sense trouble long before the instincts of a human mother would. _She can be angry with me,_ he decided,_ I'm taking it anyway._ Before his thought was finished, he'd already scooped up as many bundles as he could carry.  
"I'm sixteen summers and the oldest son, even if I don't look it. I have as much duty to the family as she does!" He began rehearsing for the inevitable argument.

Thunder rolled ominously over the clear-cut evergreens that bordered the family field. He looked to the forest's edge for an estimate of how long until the storm hit, and saw the shadow of a man move in the trees. "Hail, stranger, shelter the storm with us," he called out, glancing at the lightning illuminating the treetops. When he looked again, the shadow was gone. Ethan didn t waste time thinking about it the expected argument over the flax he held was far more pressing. "Better hurry before she turns around to drag me home by the collar," Ethan smiled wryly and jogged after Ethelain's retreating form.

The wind, which had been absent in the unnatural heat of the autumn day, picked up to a fury's pace. Ahead of him, his father opened the door to their home. Though Greg Croth was from a long line of hardy human farmers (and certainly no frail figure!), the wind caught the door and flung him out of the small cottage like a ragdoll. That same gust tore at Ethan's precious bundle, forcing him to veer from his path. "Let it go, Ethan! We've a whole field of flax!" His father's voice nearly drowned in the wind. Ethan set his feet and refused to let nature tear the prize from his grasp.

Lightning whitened the darkening sky for an instant, and Ethan kept a silent count. He barely started when the boom of thunder shook his head. Before he reached the house, there were two more successive flashes and booms with no perceptible time between them. "It must be almost on top of us," Ethan yelled through the rushing winds. "It's moving far too fast!" Air beat upon him with furious wrath, trying to push him over or pry the flax from his unyielding grip. When he finally stumbled through the door and dropped the sheaves, his fingers refused to straighten fully; his hand cramped from clutching. Greg wrestled the door closed behind him, while Ethan flexed his aching hand. His mother's wooden spoon hit him squarely in the rump, sheaves of flax scattering when he stumbled to keep his feet. "Greg, we must be consistent." Ethelain's warning sounded, before Greg even started to break up the fight.

Ethelain could often sense powerful emotions and the intentions of others, a trait of the mysterious elven ancestors she hid from. This had gotten Ethan in trouble more than once, often before the scheme had begun. Frustratingly, when it came to the useful talent of sensing intentions, he had no empathic ability to speak of. He had inherited only the slow physical development and angular - almost feminine - features from his mother. His two brothers and four sisters, who looked human and matured faster than he, had the benefit of minor empathic abilities. It was frustrating to watch his younger siblings, Leah and Nathan, speak with their parents as equals. Mother has no troubles considering them as adults.

"Fool boy," Ethelain ranted, "That's because you don't risk your life for a handful of crop!" Ethan's partly tilted eyes narrowed and he got to his feet. I could prove to you I m not a boy anymore... Ethan planned his rebuke.  
"Ethan, don't you dare start this again!" his mother scolded before he even opened his mouth.  
"Why not? Neither of you want to stand up to the tax man, I could keep us enough money to eat well all winter without anyone suspecting!" The wooden spoon again sped toward his backside. Ethan expected the swing and disarmed his mother with faster reflexes and a younger body. The fight would have continued, but for an interruption.  
"Momma?" Young Jenna, barely five summers old, asked her question in a loud singsong voice. "Why does the forest glow when it's orange?" She d been leaning on the sill of the house's solitary oiled-cloth window. The fight paused while the family puzzled over her unusual perception. The forest was made of pine trees, green all summer and winter. When Ethelain looked where the girl pointed, she paled.

"Forest fire! Grab the children and run!" Ethelain scooped Jenna and her twin sister, Alaina, in each arm and rushed to the door. Everyone else followed, abandoning all but family members and the clothes on their backs. Ethan stubbornly crouched down and swept as many sheaves of flax as he could into a pile. Before he could pick them up, however, his father grabbed him by the cuff of his neck and hauled him outside. Ethan glanced at the forest and saw the orange aura above the trees grow brighter and brighter, the fire almost to the edge.  
"The flax," he protested. There must be enough time to fetch it! It will be all we have to pay the land-tithe. It might be impossible to pay the rent and trade taxes as it is!  
"Your LIFE!" his father's tone demanded Ethan to follow or continue to be dragged. His hand, still tightly gripping the back of his son's neck, proved his doubt of Ethan listening to reason. The Croth family, a struggling Ethan in tow, rushed away as fast as they could. The flames overtook them anyway, sliding up the dry grass on each side of the stone trade-road and filling their noses with smoke. Ethan looked back when he realized they couldn't outrun the fire, just in time to see the shell of his house collapse. As he watched the last timber hit the ground, rain rushed from the clouds in a downpour, soaking them all to the bone and immediately dousing the inferno around them.

"Curse Siberlee!" Ethan shouted through the dense rainwater, the lingering heat of his clothes still steaming the water that drenched him. "That fire wrecked everything we own and now the rain falls!" The water gathered to solidify mid-air with his words, and hail the size of a fist fell on the beleaguered family. "Don't speak ill of the Mother of Nature!" Greg moved to shelter the youngest children with his own body, shouting over the noise. "Look what you've done!" Ethelain accused, speaking just in time for a particularly large hailstone to split open on Ethan's forehead. The world spun and more hail - the largest he had ever seen - sent him to the Land of Dreams.

Chapter 1

2000 years later...

Bruda 7th, 2438 Wind and snow howled through the door of the tavern as it opened, but the patrons within didn t shiver: This was not their first blizzard, not their last, and most certainly not a rare occurrence. The Minleth Merchant was a tiny structure by travelers' standards, barely large enough to accommodate its purpose. The tavern section was the largest room, and barely held five small tables and a bar. Two score people were crowded around three of the small tables; the fourth table reserved as stage for the Scribe, and the fifth not only too close to the drafty door, but with a bad view of the Scribe's stage. Stranded miners often followed the firelight of the tavern's blizzard beacon to find shelter during storms. The bitterly cold air washed away the smell of ale and cooking stew, raising goose bumps on exposed flesh. Dwarves and humans alike stopped conversation at their respective tables to see who the newcomer was.

The tavern door vibrated between closed and ajar: it was raised above the ground as high as a dwarf could step, in order to accommodate the snowdrifts, but tonight it wasn't quite high enough. It pulled outward only a hand's span before the entrant needed to dig snow from its path. While he struggled with the stubborn door, the tavern of people watched the futile efforts. The swirling wind knocked a wooden placard off the wall to wobble just inside the threshold, proudly displaying its message: We Pledge our Service to Minleth Fields, and the Dark Lord Croth.

The stranger spied the fallen placard, and snaked his hand into the door to grab the makeshift shovel. His snow-burred woolen mitten slid across its smooth lacquer without finding purchase, so the outsider shucked the wet mitten to reveal bright red fingers too long and slender to be human. The door shut from another gust of wind, pinning the hand in place, and its owner cried out in frustration. The tavern patrons chuckled. Though the struggle was entertaining, Goan, the barkeep eventually reminded the crowd who was avoiding his duties. "Jesaph's turn," he announced.

Jesaph sighed loudly in resignation. The old scribe often wondered why the door didn't open inward, so the blizzard's victims could crawl in on their own, but he never got around to asking. As resident Scribe, he insisted he shouldn't have to take a turn dragging in the storm refugees at all! There were certainly enough dwarves in the tavern room who could open the door wider than he. However, he'd already argued that point, and the tavern patrons had spoken: Jesaph enjoyed the attention of a cheering crowd well enough, but the sound of their jeers had convinced him to quietly if grudgingly- take his turn. He was heavy, and stout as any dwarf, but though he had no trouble shouldering the upper part of the door open, he couldn't budge the snow-mired bottom. With a heavy sigh of resentment, Jesaph bent his weight into the rickety door and lifted the frozen half-elf through the wider opening at the top.

Goan cleared his throat with an attention-grabbing growl.  
"Looks like another snow-in." He stated matter-of-factly. The patrons replied with a plethora of mocking comments, all overlapping and unintelligible but for their common tone. The barkeep fought against the tide of depreciations to finish his announcement: "It's a damn good thing we have old Jesaph here to recite the rest of the Croth Rebellion tonight!" The crowd changed its tune instantaneously, drowning Goan's words with joyous noise and forcing him to shout by the end of his statement.

Jesaph unceremoniously dropped his soggy load and basked in the glory of his people's adulation, acknowledging them with triumphant hands in the air, waving encouragement for louder cheers. The First Book of Ethelain was a favourite among the citizens of Minleth Fields, who lived by the life lessons found in Ethan Croth's tale. The people of Last Chance requested it so often that the white haired Scribe refused to tell more than one Legend at a time - unless there was a reason for the tavern to stay open all night. The patrons were so excited, none but Jesaph noticed the wet half-elf slinking to hide at the drafty, unoccupied table.

"Are you familiar with the tale, stranger?" Jesaph asked, trying to draw him into the camaraderie of the tavern. The bar crowd refocused their attention on him, and the newcomer cringed.

"I have heard of it... " The half-elf cautiously replied, "...but never heard it spoken." The stranger peeled off his wet outer cloak, keeping the hood of the dry, fur-lined inner jacket tight to his face. The quality of the cloak, the fact that he had a jacket underneath, and the aloof behavior implied nobility, but Jesaph had a gut feeling: There is something not quite right about that man, Jesaph mused. He is definitely ready for a good Priesting, the old Scribe decided. Jesaph took great pride in his 'Priesting' skills; his ability to solve other people's problems for them. He assured himself that, despite his peasant lineage, unknown lords still fell below his rank when it came to his special breed of spiritual aid.

"What brings a noble like yourself to the draftiest tavern in all of Minleth Fields?" Jesaph asked, talking as much to the crowd as the lord.  
"The snow and the promise of a fire is not enough, of course." The lord's sarcastic response prompted a few chuckles. The nosy Scribe was taken aback. What a wit! Jesaph fumed. It'll take a lot of work to bring this fellow out of his solitude, the scribe realized. But I enjoy a good challenge.

"You make a good point, lord..." Jesaph waited for a name, but none was forthcoming. The uncomfortable silence lingered far too long, until Jesaph could stand it no longer. "Well, Milord," Jesaph continued bitterly, even more determined to get into the half elf's confidence. "You will hear the entire Book of Ethelain this night. And her second book tomorrow, if we're still snowed in. Barkeep," Jesaph mockingly imitated his impression of Lordly behavior, "a hot meal and strong drink for our noble guest." Jesaph's nasal voice and pompous stance brought a chuckle from his rapt audience. The Scribe s crowd was still eager for his performance, despite the newcomer's morose influence. He would pry the name and problem out of his mysterious guest later. After all, nobody was going anywhere in this weather and he wasn't the kind of man to deny a crowd primed for his performance.

He started to climb his stage, but his old joints complained about the blast of cold he'd just received. It would be a couple candlemarks before they would be ready to keep his balance on a wobbly table. Instead, he sat on the table's edge and silently signaled for a strong drink of his own.

***  
-)Second scroll of the Book of Ethelain: The Legend of Fate Defied)-  
Trivo 32, 559

Ethan woke to the sound of his mother crying. He was in the state between sleep and wakefulness where the mind was alert and the body oblivious. Whatever field he lay in, it was not his own; he had seen his crop burn, and the grassland he felt underneath him was alive. This ground was soft and wet from the rain that still drizzled on his battered face. No storm could soften parched earth on its own, he knew, the water would drain away before enough was absorbed. It took a day or more of steady rain for the type of soil he felt beneath him. Where am I, he wondered, how long have I been asleep?

Greg was shouting a fair distance away, in anger so intense his words were unclear. In contrast, the Overlord and owner of the Croth farmland, Overlord Vaarsak, spoke his words crystal clear; the meaning of them not lost on Ethan.  
"...with the crop in ashes and the house unusable, there is no other way for you to pay." Greg let out a howl of savage rage, and guards shouted in their efforts to restrain him.

Booted footsteps vibrated the ground, Ethan s head throbbing in response. Ethelain pressed her body over his,  
"He's terribly hurt. Please, wait for him to wake." He heard the slap against his mother's face, her entire body falling limp atop him.  
"Slaves have no right to speak to their keepers."

Slave: a single word that justified his parents' reactions. Fear and anger filled him as well, crying out against his unresponsive body. Why won't you move? he asked it. The guard tore his mother from him, but her hand found his at the last moment and gripped it tightly. He was dragged face down along the ground, nose filling with mud.

Another guard pried Ethan's hand from his mother's and flipped him over with the toe of a boot.  
"Get up, boy. We haven't got all day, the caravan is leaving soon." Ethan tried his best, even managing to move his arm, but it was not good enough for the guard. The hard metal of an armored boot struck him in the side and he was unable to curl up in defense. Ethan heard a loud Pishaw. "You're not faking? You really are hurt." The guard sighed in exasperation, "why do I always get the crippled ones?" Strong arms lifted him to his feet and supported his weight, "try to walk, boy, or I'll put you out of your misery right now." Ethan dragged his feet forward at the guard's slowed pace and he gradually regained control of his body.

The caravan was a fair distance across his neighbor's field, plenty of time for rage and panic to build within Ethan as they walked. At the caravan, Ethan saw his father standing meekly to the side as each of his children were chained to a wagon. Though Ethelain fought with the ferocity of any mother protecting her children, Greg simply stood there. Ethan, feeling fully recovered, shook his arm free of the guardsman, and stalked toward his father. "You!" he pointed at Greg, "are a disgrace of a father!" The guards behind him held a low conversation,  
"No let the boy alone, his guard answered another, who was concerned about letting Ethan walk on his own. It should be fun to watch. Besides, he couldn't run away if he wanted to." Ethan kept this guard's lax attitude in mind.  
"Son," pleaded Greg, "I did all I could-"  
"YOU DID NOT!" He let the accusation sink in to his father's mind, then continued. "You could have helped me gather the flax. I almost had it in my grasp, and you pulled me away."  
"The flax wouldn't have been enough," Greg said dejectedly.  
"Not enough for you! You didn't care to keep us kids free, did you?" His demand for repentance was almost too much for Greg to handle.  
"It wouldn't have mattered," Greg replied bitterly. Ethan's fist connected with his father's face. Greg grabbed his son's wrists to fend off further attack. They grappled viciously, thrashing with limbs, heads, even teeth. Their struggle became mobile, breaking away from each other and moving back in. The guards gradually gave them more and more room, until the circle was spread too thin. Greg pulled back and fell to his knees.  
"Ethan I'm sorry," he wept.

Ethan heard it with his back turned; he had seen the vulnerability of the circle and sprinted through it to freedom.


End file.
